THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM | TOWER | BASEMENT

  600

  ? Come then, boy. Steal my keepsake like your master told you to… ?

  The corpses jerked like rusty marionettes, facing him. A mountain of dead men and women who’d fallen victim to temptation and were paying for the sin in the afterlife.

  ? If you can! ?

  Solvanel tightened his grip on the crook and needle. “I serve no master!”

  The closest corpse lunged.

  He sidestepped, driving the needle’s tip into its abdomen. The body crumpled, but another took its place. Its hands grasped at empty air where he’d been standing moments before.

  ? Impressive, ? the being said. ? But pointless. ?

  The one he attacked rose up behind the next, meeting his bandaged eyes with its empty sockets, itching with the desire to rip him apart.

  A chill went up the young man’s spine.

  A laissé-soi was a body possessed by the darkness of its owners grievances. While mobile, they were not considered living creatures, being incapable of emotion and new thought past the initial death.

  The battle would have been simpler if she were a manifestation of such grievances, her control limited to simple commands, but if each of her thralls acted with startling intelligence and foresight, he would soon be driven into a corner.

  Yet still…

  No! Focus!

  The next corpse swiped at his neck. Its movements were sloppy. Solvanel twisted, bringing the needle down through its wrist. The hand was severed, but the old man’s limp caused him to buckle. It fell upon his knee, sending a jolt of frigidity through his left leg.

  ? You’re delaying the inevitable, shepherd. Just like the rest. ?

  Six more flames abandoned the base of the mound.

  He stumbled backward, crook sweeping wide to buy distance as the numbness faded.

  The dead kept coming. Silent. Relentless. Three on the right. Two on the left. The next, coming down the middle. Their empty sockets fixed on him with something that wasn’t sight but felt worse. Looking closer, he saw a wisps of golden flame burning inside each of their eye sockets.

  In a moment of clarity, he allowed the nearest corpse to close the distance.

  A jab aimed at the shoulder—a close dodge. But he was closing the distance as well.

  Solvanel raised the needle and used it for the intended purpose—thrusting rather than slicing.

  He embedded the azure blade into the creature’s right eye, then stepped back as its blood sprayed out—caution rather than necessity. The creature collapsed as others rushed ahead, but even while avoiding their attacks, his eyes were focused on its crumpled remains.

  One second.

  Two seconds.

  Three.

  It didn’t move.

  Solvanel dove between two corpses and retrieved the needle.

  The dead closed in tighter now, learning from their fallen.

  He backed toward the mound’s base, needle dripping with ichor that hissed against stone. His leg throbbed where the severed hand had touched him, the cold still gnawing at bone.

  ? Clever little thing, ? the being mused. ? You’ve discovered their weakness. But how many eyes can you pierce before yours fail you? ?

  Fifteen corpses surrounded him now. Then twenty. Thousands still guarding the mound.

  They moved with coordinated intent, cutting off all routes of escape.

  Solvanel’s breath came shallow.

  The needle felt heavier with each swing, his grandmother’s crook trembling in his weakening grip.

  A corpse lunged from the left.

  He pivoted—drove the needle through its socket. The body fell, but two more rushed from the right before he could recover. Their fingers raked across his shoulder, tearing cloth and skin.

  Ice spread from the wounds.

  He gasped, stumbling sideways. His right arm stiffened where they’d touched him. The only consolation was that the numbness in his leg counteracted the limp.

  ? There it is, ? the being said softly. ? The moment they all reach. When the body fails and the spirit breaks. ?

  The needle flashed twice. Two more fell, golden wisps dissipating from their sockets.

  But for every one that dropped, three more pressed in.

  His back hit something solid. An empty weapon rack along the chamber’s edge.

  He glanced sideways across the treasury, remembering a weapon he'd come across before.

  There, on the other side of the mound, a crimson spear with a black shaft leaned against the wall. The characters etched within glowed faintly. Even without reading them directly, he recognized their shape from his earlier sweep of the room.

  But back then, he didn’t know their meaning.

  Solvanel’s serpentine wasn’t the best, but he had always been a fast learner. He knew the characters made up a word this creature used during her conversation with Dixon.

  [Ton corps ne conna?t que la faim et ton esprit ne désire rien d’autre que du pain.]

  Your body knows only… faim… and your mind seeks naught but bread.

  That word was in the center of her sentence.

  Your mind seeks nothing but bread because your body knows only…

  ... Hunger?

  A corpse grabbed his wrist. He wrenched free, but the numbness spread up his forearm. The needle nearly slipped from his fingers.

  Another lunged for his throat. He sent the corpse sprawling. But his leg buckled from the effort, the old wound screaming.

  ? You’re slowing, ? the being observed.

  Twenty corpses had become thirty. They formed a wall of reaching hands and empty faces, golden flames burning in hollow sockets. Solvanel began moving laterally, drawing the dead with him.

  A corpse came from above, dropping from the mound’s face. He barely rolled aside, its hands missing his head by inches.

  He drove the needle into its jaw and through its eye sockets as it landed.

  The body convulsed and went still.

  But three more had used the distraction. They grabbed his legs, his shoulders. Cold flooded through him. His crook connected with skulls, with ribs, with grasping hands. The corpses staggered back, but his vision swam from the effort.

  ? Impressive endurance, ? the being said. ? Most would have fallen by now. But you’re only delaying what we both know comes next. ?

  He stumbled forward, still angling toward the weapon. His right leg barely responded anymore. The cold had spread to his hip, creeping toward his stomach.

  It was closer now. Fifteen paces. Then ten.

  A corpse rushed him. He sidestepped, but too slowly. Its shoulder caught his chest, sending him sprawling. The needle clattered away across stone.

  ? There! ?

  The dead surged forward as one.

  Solvanel rolled past them, hands scrambling across the floor. His fingers found cold metal.

  He grabbed it and shot it toward the spear.

  The needle’s tip connected with the spearhead, ringing out in the enclosed space.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then the characters within the relic blazed crimson.

  The nearest corpse jerked mid-lunge, its trajectory shifting. Not toward Solvanel anymore, but toward the active weapon.

  ? What? ? The being’s voice sharpened. ? How did you— ?

  Another corpse stumbled, its path bending unnaturally. Then another. They fought against the pull, golden flames writhing in their sockets, but their bodies betrayed them.

  The spear’s glow intensified.

  Five corpses were dragged toward it. Then ten. They clawed at the ground, at each other, at anything to resist. But the weapon’s hunger was absolute.

  The first corpse reached the spear. Its hand touched the shaft.

  The golden flame in its eyes flared bright with defiance. Cracks formed upon its face as pieces of the corpse drifted down as ash and dust.

  ? Stop this! ? The being’s voice cracked through the chamber. ? You dare touch my treasures! ?

  Solvanel didn’t answer.

  He scrambled backward on his hands, putting distance between himself and the carnage.

  More corpses were pulled in. They reached the spear in a stumbling mass, hands touching wood, eyes flaring and dying. The weapon drank their flames like wine.

  Thirty corpses reduced to empty husks in moments.

  But the spear’s glow didn’t fade. It grew brighter. Hungrier.

  The remaining dead fought harder against the pull now, their movements becoming frantic. Some grabbed onto weapon racks, onto gold, onto each other. Anything to resist.

  It wasn’t enough.

  One by one, they were dragged across the stone floor, leaving gouges where they’d tried to hold on. The spear consumed them all.

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  That being said, her voice was growing frantic. ? That weapon was created to mimic the abilities of one of our greatest foes. Do you have any idea what happens when that cursed thing feeds for too long? ?

  The last corpse was pulled in. Its flame extinguished.

  Silence fell across the covenant.

  Thirty piles of ash lay scattered around the spear, empty and still. The weapon itself pulsed with crimson light, the characters along its shaft writhing like living things.

  Solvanel lay gasping on the cold stone, both arms barely functioning, his legs refusing to move. The cold had spread to his chest. Each breath was agony.

  But the dead had stopped.

  ? Clever, ? the being said after a long moment. ? Using my own servants to feed that thing. But you’ve only bought yourself time, shepherd. Your body is failing. Your flame gutters. And now... ?

  The spear’s glow reignited. ? Now you’ve given it another taste. ?

  The weapon trembled.

  Solvanel felt it then. A pull. Faint but unmistakable. The same hunger that had dragged the corpses now turned its attention to the only living flame within the chamber.

  To him.

  His fingers scraped against stone, trying to push himself away. But his body wouldn’t respond anymore. The cold had spread too far.

  The pull grew stronger.

  ? There it is, ? the being said softly. ? The moment you realize your cleverness has doomed you. ?

  Solvanel’s hand slid across the floor, drawn inch by inch toward the spear. He tried to plant his feet, to resist, but his legs were useless.

  The weapon’s hunger was absolute.

  He looked up at the mound towering above him. At the summit, where warmth still radiated through the cold. Where the tree he couldn’t see bore fruit that glowed with terrible promise.

  [Choose with wisdom.]

  His grandmother’s words pulsed weakly through the crook lying just out of reach.

  The pull intensified. His body slid faster now across the stone.

  ? Serves you right, ? the being said. ? Let it take you. It’s a gentler death than what I would have given. ?

  Solvanel’s hand found something—an arm jutting out from beneath a pile of coins. He grabbed it, using the body as an anchor. But the dead weight only slowed him. Didn’t stop him.

  Ten paces from the spear. Then eight.

  His heart hammered against frozen ribs. The weapon’s crimson-gold light filled his vision even through the bandages.

  Six paces.

  His fingers released the corpse.

  He stopped fighting the pull.

  Instead, he twisted his body, letting the weapon’s hunger drag him sideways.

  ? What are you— ?

  Four paces from the spear, his hand shot out.

  Fingers closed around wood.

  Solvanel retrieved the piece of silver that had only just begun to regain its form. He tapped it against the nose of the crook, and it rejoiced for the reunion, the part of his soul trapped inside the crook swirling and burning hot.

  Then, with a hair’s breadth between them, he slammed the base of the crook against the ground like he did inside the cave.

  The crook pulsed once, soft and warm.

  ? A pitiful attempt, ? the being sneered. ? Whose idea do you think it was to— ?

  The second pulse was anything but.

  Boom!

  A flawless radiance spread through the ground and rushed up all at once, tossing everything inside the treasury into the air and rendering him completely blind.

  The spear’s glow faded obediently.

  Like a student facing his master’s reprimand for the very first time.

  Corpses rained down with their flames extinguished. Still perfectly preserved, but immobilised by the silver’s echo.

  Solvanel hit the stone, gasping with the crook clutched to his chest.

  The being stopped. ? No. That can’t be… ?

  Solvanel didn’t wait to hear more.

  His vision swam. His heart stuttered with each beat. But his hand found the mound’s face.

  Solvanel dragged himself up the base, the crook held between his teeth.

  ? Cette chose ne t’appartient pas, voleur. Où as-tu trouvé ce morceau de bois ? ?

  Finally, he was able to pinpoint the source of her voice.

  Footsteps were trailing behind him at a distance.

  Others dragged past his ears as the corpses fell under her control once again.

  They descended the mound in organized procession, exposing the mouth-watering greenery upon which a single seed was sown. One that grew into the sprawling tree at the summit.

  Sensing a change in her tone, the young man still didn’t look back. ? Coupez! ?

  The arm he was using to pull himself up was severed mid-pull—clean, almost mercifully so. His blood sprayed up into the air, then came raining down, caught upon swaying blades like morning dew.

  ? I said release that piece of wood before I rip your teeth out with it! ?

  Solvanel screamed and slammed his forehead into the earth.

  The old man raged internally, spouting profanities that would make a mercenary blush.

  ? I warned you, ? she reminded. ? C’est ?a le problème avec vous, les héros. Vous pensez que vous allez vous en sortir grace à la chance et à votre volonté. Tu pensais vraiment que c’était un combat équitable ? I gave you every chance to stop. But really… j’aurais pu faire ?a dès le début. ?

  Solvanel drove his hand into the dirt, pulling himself up another body length. ? Coupez! ?

  His left leg was gone.

  But even so, he shook his head and went up.

  ? Why? ? The being’s voice had lost its mockery.

  ? Why should a human being keep fighting, knowing that some things are simply not meant for them to taste? ?

  “Because my sheep are waiting.”

  ? Your sheep will die regardless. ?

  He pulled himself higher. “Not while I’m still breathing.”

  ? Then why throw your life away for nothing? ?

  Solvanel took a deep breath before another pull. “I’m not throwing my life away, you old bitch.”

  ? Coupez! ?

  The young man wept terribly.

  It was truly a sorry sight. No legs. And his dominant arm, severed at the shoulder.

  His body ached in protest.

  His mind stood alongside it.

  But his inner flame had taken over his body since the night he witnessed the old man.

  No longer could he afford to stop here. Before this world was bathed in light and born anew.

  The summit was close. Soon it would be ten body-lengths. Then eight. He would feel the warmth radiating from above, cutting through the darkness that’s been eating away at him all his life.

  “I’m not throwing away my life, you old bitch,” Solvanel said again. “I don’t care if I choke to death on that stinking fruit. I’ll make it to the top of this mound even if it kills me.”

  ? Is that so? ?

  The being asked, a curious silence followed her last word. The being came before him and stopped down in front. She lifted his cheek with the back of a hand, unbinding his eyes with the others.

  “Wait, stop!”

  Solvanel’s climb came to a halt, the instinct to close his eyes a stronger command.

  But he’d already met her gaze, and he could not turn away from it.

  Her physique was a statue of sacred ivory, carefully extracted from the earth and delivered to a master craftsman to be carved entirely with a needle held between his fingers. Each strand of her curly black hair glinted like dusk within a shower of gold.

  Her lips, shapely and full, held a quiet promise of tenderness that contradicted the vast, terrible power seated behind the depths inside her brown eyes. There was an allure to her—an almost magnetic pull born of suffering and sanctuary, the kind that lured both saints and monsters into worship.

  However, there was no flame inside her chest.

  Only a lifeless black void where the divine breath was meant to be.

  Instead, it was located in the crown of thorns on top of her head, drawing steady streams of blood down her face. Each barb glinting with faint, sacred light—a symbol of suffering worn with such regality that it no longer resembled punishment, but authority.

  ? Then what if I say it will kill you? ? she asked, her voice brushing against him like a soft threat carved from silk.